Of Course It's The End  How Could It Not Be?
by OrangeShipper
Summary: She knows she has to let him go, though she could never bring herself to manage it. He'd said himself that it was the end. But he'd be coming home - no, not home, to Downton - for Christmas. AU from the end of S2.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _What is this? ANOTHER current WIP? Apparently so. This idea has been burning at me for a while, and I may credit it all to an innocent comment by EOlivet that made me go Oooh.. Hang on..._

_Now, I know that there is a wealth of M/C fics around at the moment. But though obviously some themes might cross over, I do hope this is a fresh and original perspective on it, and that it won't necessarily be what you'd expect. I hope so, anyway! _

_Also saying that, I have no intention of neglecting All That is Left, or A New Dawn - I'll just have to somehow manage to juggle them!_

_This is rushed out and un-beta-ed in an effort to get it posted while I could this evening, so I hope you'll forgive me any glaring errors. And... enjoy!_

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><p><strong><span>Of Course It's the End. How Could it Not Be?<span>**

Matthew was coming home for the Christmas season.

Well, Mary thought, that wasn't strictly true. He would be visiting Downton, as would she be, because it was no longer her home. For her home was Haxby Park, and Matthew's home was Manchester, and they had not been at Downton (or indeed anywhere) together since her wedding in July.

Not that that could be termed 'having been together', though, really. For she'd barely dared to look at him, and he'd hardly spoken to her; only the briefest, politest pleasantries in the receiving line, and she now well believed herself to have imagined any trace of warmth she might have detected in his voice.

She'd done her best to forget about him. It was the end! He'd said so, and she had agreed! She was married now. It was far easier now that she was secluded away, and he'd torn himself away… But he was coming back.

"Will there be anything else, Milady?"

Mary flinched as her maid broke into her thoughts, meeting the young girl's eyes in the mirror.

"No," she gave a distracted smile. "Thank you, Harris."

The girl was a bore. Perfectly fine as a ladies maid, but perfectly plain, with no spark about her. Richard had made sure of that. Not that Mary could mind, particularly – if she'd felt some inclination to talk to her, as she always had with Anna, it would've been all the more difficult not to. Oh, Richard would just _love_ to hear of her pining over Matthew, regretting all the choices in her life that had brought her to this point…

Which was why she'd been doing her level best not to think about him.

"Very good, Milady. Goodnight."

"Mm," Mary acknowledged Harris' departure, releasing a gentle sigh as her bedroom door clicked shut, and she was left alone.

In many ways, she was thankful that Matthew had disappeared following Lavinia's death. It made life far easier, and Richard far kinder. She discovered that, without Matthew's presence as what her husband perceived to be an immediate threat, his jealousy seemed to have cooled. It all passed unspoken between them, forgotten on the surface but ever present, and Richard had tried to distract her with trinkets and servants and mindless, numbing duties that she should fulfil as his wife…

She was glad of his restraint, though sometimes she wished he would just be terrible to her, give her a reason to fight back, because she could find none. She was perfectly comfortable, perfectly well looked after. But she felt confined, trapped, cornered into a life of silence and pretence and facades.

Oh, Matthew. For a while, she'd succeeded in not thinking about him, in moving on. Accepting that this was her life now, and he was no part of it, would never be.

But he was coming back to Downton, and…

As she opened her jewellery case and slipped out the tiny key from under a velvet panel, she told herself that it would make it easier. Lessen the shock. Prepare her for seeing him again.

For so long, she'd managed to restrain herself, managed to keep him locked in a drawer… But now, with the pressing reality of meeting him again – seeing his face, hearing his voice – she was powerless to resist.

With sudden determination, as if she thought she'd lose it forever if she faltered even a moment, she unlocked the drawer under the lip of her dresser, and pulled out his photograph, and held it in her hands, allowing her eyes the precious license to gaze upon his handsome, such a beautifully handsome, face.

So many times, she'd thought she might throw it away. She knew that she should – it was dangerous, in so many ways, to keep it. She had to let go – of him, of that life, that past – to cling to it could only bring pain. But every time she thought of it, she just could not bring herself to. On every level, she knew the only sensible thing to do was to consign him firmly to her past, but… Oh, it was Matthew! She was depressingly aware that he would always, always be there in her consideration _somewhere_ – it was useless to pretend otherwise. Still, she did a good job of pretending, most days… Just not tonight, when the prospect of him being in her life again, even just for a day or two, was so very real.

Lightly, she traced her finger over the photograph, outlining the curve of his jaw, his hairline, brushing softly over his lips… Her throat constricted as she stared at him, remembered even as she tried _not_ to remember, tried not to dream… The edges were faded now, a little tattered, bent and worn with years of attention. Just like the tattered, worn remnants of their love affair that they allowed to fade and bend into ruin. A breath shuddered from her chest in regret, her eyes stung and she brought the photograph to her lips, pressing them tenderly to the sepia image of his forehead, then of his lips, caught forever in a warm smile. An expression she never expected to see directed at her again.

Without warning, her bedroom door opened.

Panic swept through her. Fingers trembling, she shoved the photograph back into the drawer and closed it in haste, before turning, clutching her knees in distress.

"Richard!" Her chest heaved, and her high, breathless voice trembled with uncoverable guilt. He was frowning, thinking, connecting… "Darling, you –"

"What?" He cut her off, pushing away from the doorframe where he'd leaned and moving slowly towards her. His voice was deceptively smooth, deceptively calm. "I shouldn't come into your bedchamber without warning? Is it not my right to do so?" His lips curved into a smile, a smile that made Mary's blood run cold. Oh, he'd never laid a hand on her in anger, but she'd never given him reason to…

She stood, agitatedly twisting her hands, trying to at least feel on an equal level to him.

"Of course it is, I didn't mean –"

"Of course you didn't, dear. Come, look at you… One might almost think you had something to hide!"

Mary laughed humourlessly. "Do you think I'd try it? I'd lock my door if that were the case!"

"And give me even greater reason to suspect you?" Richard cocked his head lightly. "I give you more credit than that, darling."

"I'm glad of it!" Mary swallowed, trying to keep herself between him and her dresser. "Anyway, I can't image what you possibly think I might be 'hiding'." She warmed to her act, now. "You allow me little opportunity to find anything _to_ hide!"

"Oh, nonsense. I credit you with intelligence, it's one of the reasons I wanted to marry you. And I trust you with it."

Mary did her best not to snort with derision, restraining with difficulty the natural roll of her eyes.

Richard carried on, carried on walking towards her, seeming to take an age to cross her room which suddenly felt terrifically small and cramped. "I'd hate to believe that you should abuse that trust in any way, Mary, by thinking that you can keep things from me."

He'd reached her now, he was close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin, and she stiffened, meeting his eyes without fear. He stood beside her, locked her gaze in a desperate challenge for a moment, granting her the opportunity to give in and beg for his forgiveness. But she would not.

"Very well," he sighed dramatically. "Might I also trust you, then, to open your drawer, that you take such great pains to keep locked from me?"

Trembling, allowing her eyes to close for a brief second in resignation, Mary turned and did so. There was no point denying him.

For a long while, there was silence, as they both stared down at the open drawer in which Matthew's photograph lay on clear display, smiling innocently and mockingly up at them.

"I don't know what to say," Mary whispered.

"No." More silence, seconds stretching into minutes. When Richard did eventually find his voice, his words disturbed Mary more than she could imagined. "My poor, dear Mary," he said quietly. His voice was low, still smooth as silk, still dangerous. "How sorry I feel for you."

"Sorry!" Mary exclaimed in disbelief, turning to him. "Richard, I –"

"Yes. Only terribly sorry."

"Why?"

Slowly, Richard stretched out a hand and lifted the photograph from the drawer. He took a few steps away, then turned to face her, holding it out almost between them, his face passionless and unreadable.

"I'm sorry, my dear, for your utterly pathetic desperation to cling to a man who threw you down. It's really – quite sad!"

Mary swallowed, pressed her lips into a thin line to stop them trembling. Her fingers twitched and clenched into agitated fists by her side as she remained otherwise motionless, unable to speak as he carried on.

"I suppose it's admirable, your devotion," her husband continued. "If foolish. I was there, my dear – I heard him tell you it was the end. I heard him ruin your dreams, I heard him destroy you. How tragically sad, that even in the face of his rejection over the open grave of his fiancée, you remain trapped by him." He shook his head, with a sorry frown.

Oh, his _pity_ was unbearable! He wasn't even angry at her, not even angry at Matthew, only _sorry_ – how utterly insufferable! Mary hated it, hated _him_ in that moment, she wished he would raise his voice or his hand to her. Shout at her, strike her, give her a _reason_ to hate him and believe that he was a terrible husband, because by the letter of things he _wasn__'__t_, and that infuriated Mary more than she could express.

Her eyes glittering cold, Mary shrugged.

"You say it as it is," she consigned, playing along. "Though you've no reason to fear, for as you say, he would not have it." How that might curry in her favour, she couldn't tell.

"Oh, no, dear. I do not fear," Richard said. He turned his body away from her, looking towards the fire. "You see, I want you to be happy, dear. I want to be a good husband to you. And to do that, I need to protect you, from yourself and your fantasies. I want you to be happy, and you can't be while you're still haunted by cousin Matthew."

"No," Mary whispered, her eyes locked onto his back.

Richard took two steps towards the fire, his hand stretched out. Mary resisted, waited, could not do so and stepped forward. Hearing her, Richard turned, a smile of satisfaction, of having _won_ on his face.

"You think I am going to destroy it?" He raised his eyebrows, meeting her eyes fiercely, with a false warmth. "No, my darling."

He withdrew his hand, and turned, holding the photograph instead out to her. "You are."

She could not speak, could not move, and he waited. Mary's heart hammered in her chest, she could feel cold sweat pooling on her back and on her palms in quiet fear. She couldn't, she _couldn__'__t_, oh he was cruel! But of course… she had to.

Richard watched her, feeling a weight on his chest as she wilted in front of him. Did she think he enjoyed it? Did she think it gave him any pleasure? It was for her own good, surely she had to see that.

With her breath held against her tears, Mary stepped forward and took the photograph from his hand. She went to stand before the fireplace.

It seemed to roar, and flame, the heat of it making her burn. She took a deep breath, refusing to allow him (neither Richard nor the phantom of Matthew in the photograph) the satisfaction of seeing her shed a tear.

And she threw him into the fire. As the flames licked and curled around the edges, turning his beautiful face black and then to ash, she felt Richard's hand fall on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, my darling. You had to let him go."

Yes, she did, she thought with a sick feeling in her gut. For the sake of her future – of course, he was right. She'd known it herself for months. Matthew had let her go. And now she had to let him go.

Only... He was coming home for the Christmas season.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I apologise if this chapter was a little miserable. I think I'd like to make the disclaimer here that this fic isn't wish fulfilment, nor is it a direction I think the show will take, more something I was keen to explore. At some point I'd like to write a prelude of Matthew attending the wedding, from his POV. Obviously, Matthew will be appearing next chapter! (Woo!)_

_Any feedback will be very much appreciated - thank you!_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _I'm not QUITE sure how I managed it... but here (just a LITTLE late for mmmondaymadness!) is Chapter 2. Now, I must explain that this chapter has been written in fits and starts over a horribly stressful week - my school is being Ofsted inspected and I've literally spent my ENTIRE weekend in school. It's not fun! But somehow, I've managed to get this out over lunch breaks - so I do hope you'll forgive any sort of incohesiveness in the chapter. _

_Thank you so much for your response to Chapter 1, it's enormously encouraging! And thank you to EOlivet for polishing my errant commas up and giving me the go-ahead!_

_:)_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Two<span>**

At this moment in time, Matthew wasn't entirely sure whether he was grateful for his mother, or enormously irritated by her. Both, actually, he decided.

If left to his own devices, he wouldn't be anywhere close to having his coat on, gloves in hand, almost (but definitely not quite) ready to leave for the Abbey. If left to his own devices, he might not be in Downton at all. Oh, he would've found an excuse... Any excuse, it wouldn't have mattered what. _Something_. Anything. Anything to protect him from this.

Truthfully, it was not so much the situation itself as the fear of it. He considered himself – well, as much _over_ the death of a fiancée as one could expect to be nearly eight months later. But it hadn't been her death that had thrown him so low, well – it _was_, of course it was, but – it was the guilt. Guilt at his actions, guilt that Lavinia had known them, guilt that she had accepted that and shown far better grace than the Lord knew he _deserved_ considering what he'd done, what he'd felt... She would never have been there in the first place if it were not for him, and his selfishness. Even when he'd proposed to her – now that he thought about it – it had been to protect himself. Thoughtless, stupid, selfish man. More than that, though, more terrible even than that, was the guilt at the thread of relief that he'd felt. Of having _escaped_, good God.

Everything was a source of guilt, and regret, and hatred.

How could he possibly allow have allowed himself to be happy with Mary after what he'd done? How _dare_ he? How dare he even consider to snatch her from Sir Richard, who could offer her stability and comfort - a far better prospect for her than himself; the wounded, bitter, miserable shell of a man whose trust in the promise of any sort of _future_ had been mercilessly and systematically destroyed by circumstance, time and time again. No, he could offer her nothing. Only a love so terribly misplaced that it seemed to have done nothing but hurt people, himself included. He had no doubt that had he dared to follow his heart, to indulge his selfish fantasies and tempt her from her future and security, it could only have ended in further ruin. She deserved far better, and he deserved far less.

But to even consider that, in any case, would have been a slight on Lavinia, on her memory.

Escaping to Manchester – for that was truly what it had been, an escape – had helped him to heal. He was his own man, there; dependent on no-one and no-one dependent on him (thank God he could _be_ independent, now). He lived, he went to work (it had only taken days to find a post, with men being so lacking following the war), he came home and read and ate and didn't bother anyone. No-one bothered him. He was lonely, but it was better that way, really. Away from Downton – away from _her_ – the wounds had slowly begun to mend. He'd begun to forget; just a little, just sometimes. It had taken months, but slowly and surely he'd thought of them a little less every day – or at the very least, if he did think of them he could be comforted by the fact that they must all be getting along better now without him burdening them.

Only once had he been back, to see Mary married. That had helped. Though the grief in his chest had been sharp, and how he'd _wished_ things were different in so many ways, it had afforded him some closure. Now she was settled, she was safe from him and his destructive love, and he could take some comfort in that. So long as she was happy, she was well provided for, and had a future to rely upon. And really, if he had felt any distress – well, didn't he deserve it? The pain almost made him feel better. Which only made him feel worse.

It was only under the considerable duress, both from his mother and Lord Grantham, that he had returned to Downton for the season. Though really, he would've been quite happy to spend the festive period in a self-indulgent, melancholic slump; but his mother had refused to allow it. In some respects, he was quietly glad of it – he did miss the family, and Christmas was a thoroughly miserable time to be alone, he knew that well enough already. Only... to go back to the Abbey meant seeing her, seeing her with him, seeing the place where he would have gotten married and the place where Lavinia had died. Any of the memories and feelings the place afforded him were painful enough on their own merit, but combined...

His mother, though, had helpfully pointed out that if he _didn__'__t_ go – if he remained hidden away and confined within the prison of his own self-imposed misery – everyone would imagine precisely why and would pity him for it when he would _have_ to show his face on Christmas day.

Of course he had to go. To show them all how much _better_ he was.

"For goodness sake, Matthew!" his mother exclaimed, standing already by the door impatiently.

He sighed heavily. "Yes, alright. I know, I'm coming. Stop treating me like a child, Mother."

"Only when you stop acting like one, my dear," she said very fondly.

Matthew glared uncharitably, and went back into the sitting room to retrieve his cane. He didn't rely on it a great deal, now, thankfully. But on such an occasion it provided a handy excuse for delay.

With no further excuse, Matthew took his hat from Molesley and, refusing any assistance, clambered into the waiting car, resolutely refusing the inclination of his gaze to shift just a little to the churchyard next door. He noted with detached interest the new driver – a youngish chap with the side of his face twisted and rippled and burnt off. It reminded him of Sybil, and Branson – no, Tom, he corrected himself – they wouldn't be there this evening, more was the pity, but at least he could bet on the distraction of their company for Christmas day itself. Small mercies.

He brushed off his mother's attempts at cheery conversation. Good practise, she said it'd be. He shrugged. He wouldn't patronise her with pretence – not when she knew that was all it would be.

As they drove slowly, so painfully slowly, down the interminably long driveway, Matthew felt his chest grow tighter and tighter. He could do it, he told himself. He'd pretended before, he felt as though whole chunks of his life in the past eight years had been merely a pretence... He could do it.

Carson was impassive in greeting them at the door. Passing over his things, Matthew looked down the daunting hallway, feeling suffocated. Well, he was here now. He almost wanted to laugh at himself for feeling so intimidated. After the things he had faced, how could this dread be more pressing than what he'd seen, what he'd _done_, in France? Gripping his cane tightly, and leaning rather more heavily upon it than usual, he steeled himself and walked slightly ahead of his mother, following Carson to the drawing room.

"Mr Crawley, your Lordship, and Mrs Crawley," Carson announced them. Matthew sighed. He didn't even have his rank to hide behind, now that demobilisation was well over with. He felt exposed without it. He breathed, fixed a smile to his face, and took Lord Grantham's extended hand. He did not look for Mary.

"Matthew," the Earl welcomed him so warmly, even after all that had happened. "It's very, very good to see you again. How are you, dear fellow?" The question was deeply sincere, carrying no air of mere politeness.

"I'm – quite well, thank you," he managed to answer relatively smoothly. "I'm so sorry we're late – I'm afraid there's only myself to blame. And this," he smiled wryly, waving his cane in protest at its very existence. That he was sorry was not at all true. That he could only blame himself; very much so.

However petty and sly, it had worked. "Oh that doesn't matter, Matthew," Cora smiled indulgently at him. "We're just glad you're able to be here at all. Shall we go straight through?"

Matthew smiled politely, nodded, as the rest of the family came towards the door to move to the dining room and greeted him. Edith seemed unusually pleased to see him, Violet almost a little disapproving... Matthew imagined that she hadn't forgiven him yet for being too cowardly to accept her advice. He could hardly blame her, when he hadn't forgiven himself yet, impossible though it had been.

Only when he could avoid it no longer, when they were upon him, did he brace himself to look up at Mary and her husband. She was standing a step behind him, hands clasped tightly together in front of her, smiling somewhere towards the middle of Matthew's chest. Matthew didn't dare allow himself to look long enough to notice any more than that, his chest felt as though it were being squeezed in an iron band.

"Matthew," Sir Richard's low, unnervingly smooth voice seemed to jar with him. "I hope you've been getting on well in Manchester?"

"Very." In replying, Matthew was at least forced to exhale, only realising then that his breath had been held. His smile was unnaturally bright with the effort it took. "Thank you. I've been kept very busy by work, and the city lends a welcome distraction. You're – both well, I hope?"

His polite query intentionally included Mary as well, though again it was her husband who spoke for them both.

"We are, yes. I'm glad to hear the city is treating you well. Anyway, shall we?"

Richard smiled politely, and gestured for Matthew to walk ahead of them, before very deliberately offering his arm to Mary. She smiled tightly, and took his elbow, understanding his display of dominance perfectly. Good Lord, he was like a peacock. Matthew was happy, better, in the city, without her. Without all of them. Yes, thank you very much, he'd made his point quite well. Matthew's back ahead of them was a cold, impassive wall, an impression only heightened by the hard tension across his shoulders.

Dinner felt terse. Everything grated at him. The soft candlelight burnt his eyes, the silver cutlery clattered against the china plates, wine gurgled in glasses and voices resonated between his ears. The chair was hard against his back, his legs, the tablecloth hung irritatingly on his thighs. Each morsel that passed his lips seemed tasteless. He didn't want to be there, he did _not_ _want__to__be__there_; not that anyone could have guessed it.

There was a faint edge of unease around the table, which Matthew put down to his own presence, and the fact that nobody knew quite what to say to him. Oh, it was an effort, but he did his best – wearing a passionless smile, nodding at the appropriate junctures, fielding concerns for his welfare with as little detail as possible and generally trying to keep the focus off himself. Did he still rely so much on his cane? Not so much now, thanks for the concern. Had he settled well back into work? Perfectly well, it was nice to have a routine again. Wasn't he very lonely? Not really, no. Had he missed them very much? Why, of course; how could they think otherwise? Everything was partial truth, concealed meanings, polite, anticipated responses. He said nothing that they would not expect him to say, and that was not questioned. He would not take their pity; he deserved that from no-one but himself.

Mind you, when the attention was not on him... Thank goodness he was seated next to Robert, though as the party was so small it didn't seem to matter much. The Earl chattered amiably about the estate, though not much as he didn't want to bore the ladies. How unfortunate; that at least would have been interesting. Isobel wittered on about the hospital until Violet decried it as an unsuitable topic for the dinner table. Edith tried, but didn't have all that much to talk about, in all honesty; and if she had, would anyone really have listened?

Matthew would've, if only to save himself from that which filled the gap... which was Sir Richard, describing with much gusto (at least, as much as he had) the new electric shower being installed in Haxby, and how thrilled Mary was with it, and how the stables had just this week finished their refurbishments so Mary's new mare Ruby was much happier, which in turn made Mary all the happier. Oh it wasn't that he said anything wrong, quite the opposite in fact; only every word from his lips punched into Matthew's gut in a fierce reminder that Carlisle could give these things to her, he could not. Carlisle was her husband, he was not. Carlisle could make her happy, he could not.

Not that he deserved any more than that.

He wanted to get on with Carlisle for Mary's sake, he'd promised (so long ago, it seemed) that he would like him if given the chance, only... how could he possibly, when his gain represented everything that Matthew had lost? Not that that mattered, that shouldn't matter, so long as Mary was happy.

Once or twice, he dared to try and smile at her (how long it was since he had done that with any genuine feeling!). But every time he gathered the strength, her gaze was away. On her plate, or on Richard, or somewhere on the wall behind his head... It rankled with Matthew, that this disappointed him. How he'd grown to somehow... _expect_ that she should meet his eye across the table, as they had so often used to do. He gripped his cutlery tighter, forcing himself to breathe, in, then out, against the frustration he felt at himself. How dare he feel any sort of sadness that she was married now, that she belonged to someone else and not to him, when he had been little more than a day away from marrying himself and fully prepared to go through with it! After the way he'd acted then, he wasn't surprised she couldn't look at him.

Of course she couldn't look at him, Mary thought dejectedly. It would be too much, and she daren't, knowing how closely Richard's eye would be on her. He'd been calm, since that night with the photograph – not another word spoken about it. She found it unsettling, as though he were just waiting, waiting for her to prove what they both knew. Well, she wouldn't. What would it serve? Nothing good, surely. Every time Matthew spoke, it took a conscious effort to not look at him, an effort so forceful that her nails dug into her palms until the pain of that disguised the more miserable pain inside.

The furthest her eyes drifted was to his hands, then a little up to his chest, and it would be so easy just to glance up into his face… But then she'd feel Richard's eyes burning into her, hear his voice curling possessively over her name and tying her down to himself and the things that he'd provided for her, and her nerve would shatter.

Richard was right, she realised, as heaviness settled in her chest. It was far easier when she forgot him. Oh, she loved him alright – her stubborn, stupid, self-righteous cousin – that would never change. But to love him now could only cause heartache, for to think of him only reminded her of what she could never have, and what she must now live with instead.

Relief washed over her when the time came for the ladies to retire, granting her a respite from the concentration it took to politely ignore Matthew and yet attract no attention. Luckily, she knew that neither her mother nor her grandmother, now, would question her on it as they would have once. She was married now. Settled. Trapped. What would be the point?

The ladies' departure left Matthew alone with Richard, and Robert. As Carson set the brandy in front of them, the Earl looked between the two men. His son-in-law, and… the man he wished were his son-in-law, who was more truly his son than the man who was perhaps more, by law.

"It is good to see you again, Matthew," he said again. "We've all missed you."

While Carlisle raised an eyebrow at that, Matthew smiled graciously, feeling more at ease now the company was lessened.

"And I you," he said honestly. However difficult all the rest was, he had missed the constant, quiet support of Robert.

"Of course, it can't be easy to be back," Richard said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "considering all that you've been through here."

"It isn't," Matthew said carefully, tapping at the side of his glass, not appreciating the reminder of it (as Carlisle, perhaps, had imagined). "Certainly not. But I couldn't label everything here as a bad memory."

"I do hope not," said Robert, kindly.

Richard looked between them, bristling slightly. Oh, he'd never expected warmth from Mary's family, though the Lord only knew he'd done his best to fit in with them. He'd never desired it. Why would he? He'd desired Mary, and the advantages she could bring him, not the baggage of her family. Likewise, he'd never expected her to love him, or any such sentimental thing as that – no, they were a good match, it was advantageous, _love_ had nothing to do with it – that, he didn't mind. But no matter what his expectations might have been, it still stung that everyone favoured the precious Matthew Crawley so. What was this uppity young man, so full of himself, that he should engender such love so universally? What did he have, what could he offer, that was above or beyond his own means? No, Richard had never expected his wife or her family to _love_ him or anything of the sort, but equally he did not expect them (particularly his wife!) to fawn so profusely over man who'd stumbled into fortune – a fortune that was not even his own, yet! Richard at least had the pride of having made his own name. What could Matthew Crawley boast of?

He shifted in his chair.

"I suppose the Christmas season is as good a time as any to forget all that," Richard flashed Matthew a thin smile. "How long will you stay before returning to Manchester?"

Matthew looked up from his brandy, wondering why it felt like an accusation.

"I haven't quite settled it, yet," he answered. "But probably not much past Christmas day. The New Year at the very latest, then I'll be back at work."

"Stay as long as you like, dear chap," Robert insisted. "And while you're here, I'd like to show you the development plans for the set of cottages on the south side of the estate – now the war is well and truly behind us, work can finally move ahead on them."

"I'd like that very much," Matthew nodded, his smile a more genuine one than it had been all evening. Those sorts of estate matters, that business, he could somehow separate a little from the mess of the rest of his affairs here.

Richard bristled further, then eased into a smile. "You must see Haxby while you are here, as well, Matthew." When Matthew looked up, bemused, he spread his hands invitingly, his voice silken and somehow unsettling. "The estate has some fine prospects, and I know Mary as well as myself would be pleased for you to see our home, if you have the time for it."

Matthew inhaled sharply, fingers unconsciously tightening around his glass at the thought of Mary, her husband, and _their__home_. Without needing to think about it, he knew that little could make him feel more uncomfortable. Yet in the same instant he also knew that he couldn't possibly refuse.

"How kind of you to offer," he smiled tightly. "I'd be delighted, of course."

Richard looked quite unmistakably satisfied, though the precise cause of his satisfaction was more difficult to define.

"Splendid. Well, shall we say Monday?"

Matthew could see absolutely no reason why not (more was the pity), and said so. And so it was settled.

If Matthew had felt more at ease once the women had retired to the drawing room, he found himself feeling now a greater sense of it to be joining them again. If he'd felt stifled over dinner, he'd soon found himself feeling even more so under the piercing scrutiny of Carlisle. What bothered him, though, was that he couldn't place his finger on precisely _why_. To be jealous would be pathetic, and he had no right to be so. Yet he had no reason to dislike him, there was just… something, some niggling feeling of discomfort, as though… Everything Carlisle said seemed to needle at him just so, right at the source of all his regrets and his bitterness, and while every word was perfectly and entirely innocuous, Matthew couldn't help feeling that somehow it… wasn't.

Once back inside the relative warmth and press of people in the drawing room, Matthew hung unobtrusively to the side. Cora played the perfect hostess and did her best to engage him, but Matthew found her sympathy cloying and overbearing. For God's sake, it had all happened _months_ ago – it was as though they believed that simply because they'd not seen him since, he could not have moved on at all – or if he had, surely it was a cruelty to remind him of it! He was actually grateful, for once, when his mother stepped in to do most of his talking for him.

Released from the pressure of conversation, Matthew's eyes naturally wandered to Mary, sheltering by the side of Carlisle. It was strange, to see her so deferent; it wasn't what he'd have expected of her. But then, it seemed that her husband left her little room to be anything else. Not that it was in any way Matthew's place to wonder about it, he chided himself. Still, he did want to talk to her – he'd worried and dithered over it, sulked about it, but eventually accepted that there were things that needed to be said if they (well, he) were ever to move past this unbearable unease.

His chance came a little later, when Carlisle was unexpectedly beckoned over by the Dowager Countess. Matthew raised a faintly amused eyebrow, ignoring the temptation to feel sorry for the man being cornered by the indomitable Violet. Now, he allowed his natural inclination to gravitate towards Mary, strange though it felt to do so after so long and with their situations so changed. Though in a way, he reflected, that actually made it easier (for _them_, if not for _him_).

"Hello," he said quietly.

Mary, who had been staring at a not particularly interesting pattern on the carpet, seemed startled by his approach. She looked up, eyes widening almost in panic for a moment before a practised smile covered her face.

"Matthew!" Her voice was typically smooth, and easy. Behind the voice and the smile, though, she seemed flighty… Unsettled. She glanced towards her husband. "You're looking well!"

It was an inane thing to say, but really what else _could_ she say?

Matthew nodded, putting her discomfort down to the strangeness of his presence after so much had changed.

"Thank you. I feel it; better than I was, at least. You look well too, Mary." His eyes unconsciously tracked up and down her, taking in the dusky red dress that he'd not seen before, the slimness of her frame beneath it, the way her dark hair contrasted so sharply to her pale shoulders; then resolutely stamped down the familiar stir of attraction. That was not right, now. It couldn't be.

There was something brave in his smile. "How do you find marriage suits you?"

Mary looked at him in surprise, taken aback by the question coming from him; though why she should be, she couldn't say.

"Oh, it is – everything I expected of the institution," she breezed after only a moment's hesitation, and smiled, hoping that would satisfy him on the matter. It was not a lie, after all.

It was a careful answer, a considered one, Matthew noticed. His eyebrow raised a little, and the question had slipped out before he had really thought about it.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said sincerely, "but… Is it everything you'd – hoped for?" It was a significant distinction, and one that was not his place to ask, he realised. How easily, how foolishly easily, he slipped back into these ways with her, saying things before considering the sense of it. That had been precisely the problem, always his problem.

Feeling mildly affronted at the directness of the question, Mary stared at him a moment. All her hard work, her concentration all evening and her hardest efforts to not be affected by him, was already beginning to unravel under the weight of his gaze.

Finally, she shrugged. "That would depend entirely on _what_ one hoped for, I suppose!" was her flippant reply.

That seemed to do the trick. They seemed to dance around each other; there was something in the air between them, neither quite daring to push through it, both knowing they could not. A flicker of disappointment crossed Matthew's gaze, but he couldn't press it.

Instead, he settled rather uselessly for, "Sir Richard has invited me to Haxby on Monday."

"Oh?" Mary did not quite successfully cover her surprise.

"Yes!" No, Matthew was still not sure what to think of it either. "It's very kind of him. I hope it's home to you now – I shall look forward to seeing it," he lied, politely.

"Of course," Mary replied, her sincerity and unease matching Matthew's. Home? She supposed it must be. But for Matthew to be there, to intrude upon it, at Richard's own request… How, how was she supposed to forget him then! It didn't take her a full moment to realise her husband's intention. To show her off, show their house off, show off everything that he owned and possessed… Reminding Matthew, and herself, without room for interpretation, that he had _won_. It made her feel a little sick.

Uneasy silence hung for a moment, as Matthew searched for anything else to say that could delay his real purpose, but to no avail. He frowned, took a breath, licked his lips. Whatever else, even if he spoke not another word to her, he had to say this.

"Mary, I… want to apologize." There, he'd said it (or taken the first step, at least).

That caught her attention. "What on earth for?" she frowned.

So many things, he thought. This was difficult. "For what I said, when… At Lavinia's funeral." Mary looked stunned, but Matthew pressed on now that the words were finally released from where they had been buzzing perpetually around his head. Which was just as well, for Mary was too shocked to be brought back to that day so sharply to make any response.

"I was – it was so very difficult," he shook his head. "And what I said – was – well, what I mean is – I hope you understand that I never blamed you." He looked at her desperately. "I might have blamed _us_, I certainly blamed myself – well, I still do, but – never you."

For so long, he'd felt terrible about that day. Haunted by the look in her eyes as he'd laid into her, assaulting her with all the guilt that had been pressing so fiercely in his chest that it had spilled out in an attack. What a miserable man he'd been, and how cruel, so self-absorbed in his own misery that he'd not stopped to think about the blow of his words on Mary, something which he'd realised and regretted from the first moments of emerging from his darkness. If he never spoke to her again beyond this evening, well; he wanted her to know that.

She could do nothing but stare at him in a sort of horror for several moments.

Then, "Oh, Matthew!" and without thinking she touched his arm. In that moment, as he spoke so devastatingly honestly to her, she forgot everything that she was supposed to think and feel towards him and was overcome only by a deep sorrow. How could he _still_ blame himself!

But before she could pay it any more thought, Matthew's eyes flicked over her shoulder, she saw his expression settle… She quickly withdrew her hand to her side, only seconds before she felt her husband's hand possessively on her back.

"Richard," she turned and greeted him with a flawless smile. "Cousin Matthew was just telling me about his planned visit to Haxby on Monday."

"Ah, yes," Richard looked distinctly pleased with himself. "We'll look forward to it, Matthew."

Matthew nodded, and quickly excused himself; and before long from the whole evening. He was drained; he was so unused to company now that the effort of it was exhausting – particularly _this_ company.

Motioning to his mother, who nodded in understanding, he thanked Lord and Lady Grantham, bid the rest of the family a good evening and stepped into the hall to wait for the car. The harsh tap of his cane on the hard floor was strangely reassuring, the cooler air and open space refreshing. He'd managed it. Got through it. It had been far from painless, but he'd done it.

When he heard footsteps echo behind him, Matthew naturally assumed it was his mother, or actually Carson, come to think of it, with his coat.

"One moment, Matthew," a voice called behind him.

He stopped sharply, and turned, eyes widening then narrowing in confusion. His pulse quickened in readiness, he tensed; a natural instinct, almost forgotten now in the year passed since his injury.

"Sir Richard," he acknowledged.

Carlisle drew in front of him, observing him shrewdly. "Before you leave; a word of warning… Do be careful."

"Careful?" His mind raced, and he felt a stir of indignation at Carlisle's tone.

The taller man let the silence ring for an uncomfortable moment, appearing to weigh his words carefully.

"Yes. I – am not a blind man, Matthew, nor a naïve one." He let this settle. "And I am not unaware of the history you share with my wife."

"I beg your pardon?" Matthew spluttered. Whatever he might have expected, it was not that, and he was too stunned to make any more coherent reply.

"Oh, I know that there has been something between you in the past. And in the past I'm sure it is, which is why I'm warning you to care now – to put to bed this very instant even the slightest intention you might have toward her."

"Any –" Matthew's voice trembled as he tried to reign in his anger at such a suggestion. He shook his head, gripping his cane until his knuckles were white. "You may well be neither blind nor naïve, Sir Richard, but most certainly fanciful if you even imagine that I should –"

"No, no, I do not," Carlisle's irritatingly smooth voice attempted to placate him, along with his deeply insincere smile. "I think you far too much a gentleman for that, Mr. Crawley, in truth. I only wish the same could be said for – well, never mind."

He let his words sink in for a moment, observing the deepening of Matthew's frown with some satisfaction.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked warily, convinced he was misunderstanding. Surely he was misunderstanding this entire conversation!

"Oh nothing, I'm sure," Carlisle words of reassurance carried none of the same sentiment. "I only urge you to be careful not to give even the slightest encouragement to Mary, for –"

Just then, Carson did approach with Isobel, and Carlisle's lips closed into a thin smile. "I hope you understand me Matthew; I do not speak a word against you. Until Monday?"

Matthew nodded mutely. How could he in one breath be accused of having _intentions_ towards Mary, and in another be labelled too honourable… Then what… He couldn't think, and by the time he looked up again Carlisle had vanished back into the drawing room.

Deeply puzzled, Matthew smiled distractedly at his mother and took her out to the car. The moment he stepped outside, the cold December air flooded into his lungs. He'd hoped it would clear his head, but… That seemed hopeless, now. Sleep, he already knew, would elude him.

He was back. How on _earth_ had he thought he could do this?

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are always very welcomed! Sorry it was rather a long one - I do get carried away! Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Very short note as it's after 4am and I need to be up in less than 2 hours! Bah!_

_So, I'd been going to write some more of All That is Left for Monday this week, but after THAT promo and THAT punch... Well. I had to have me some Matthew/Carlisle up-squaring. No punching, I'm afraid, but definite tension (I hope!). _

_On the topic of ATiL, I'd just like to say how incredibly overwhelmed by the fact that I keep seeing it popping up on Tumblr and various places I am - it's just the most rewarding thing I can feel, as a writer, to know that out there someone is enjoying my fic. So thank you, very very much - I'm incredibly touched. And promise an update soon!_

_But this is not ATiL. Of Course, It's The End - How Could it Not Be (after that promo?) (See what I did there? OK IT'S LATE I SHOULD GO TO BED). And thank you so much for all your responses to this, as well - honestly, I'm incredibly touched. Thank you!  
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_Sorry for the waffling. Before sleeps I must thank EOlivet who is brilliant and has given me the ok to post and done my confidence a world of good in the process! (Short note? Apparently I can't stop talking when this tired.)  
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_Anyway... enjoy :)  
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><p><strong><span>Chapter Three<span>**

As the driveway curved around and the undeniably impressive front of Haxby Park came into view, Matthew leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder.

"I'll be alright from here, thank you."

"Are you sure, Sir?" Carlisle's driver turned round, looking confused at the odd request.

"Quite sure," Matthew muttered as he eased himself out of the car once it had stopped.

The gleaming car crunched down the gravel ahead of him, while he stood for a moment and sucked in a deep breath of icy December air. It chilled him, but refreshed him. For some reason, he'd suddenly felt as though he couldn't bear to step immediately from Carlisle's car into Carlisle's house, he needed some time to prepare himself, to clear his mind. Really, the very fact that Carlisle had sent his _own_ car and driver felt terrifically oppressive, somehow.

While he walked, finding the sharp, cold ache in his back strangely comforting, he puzzled over why he was dreading this quite so much. Being reluctant to believe that it _was_ some boyish jealousy over Mary (he'd had his chance, he _could__'__ve _fought harder for her, making any feeling like that quite unjustified), he couldn't work out what was causing the pressing unease at the back of his mind.

Could it be that he was intimidated, in some way, by Sir Richard? Certainly not. But undoubtedly, there was something about the man that deeply unsettled Matthew. Now that he thought about it (as he had spent much time doing over the weekend), when he recalled the months before he'd left for Manchester, no-one in the family had seemed overly keen on him. Matthew was fairly able to detect warmth in people's demeanour, and he couldn't remember seeing any particularly directed at Carlisle. But then, he was not an easy man to warm to… _Why_, though?

The cold air seemed to blanket any sound, beyond his breath and the crunch of his footsteps and cane in the frost. Matthew tried to remind himself that Mary had _chosen_ Sir Richard to marry, and obviously he was able to more than adequately provide for her… Matthew wondered, perhaps, if he was disappointed by that. That after so much had changed with the war, how much they had all grown, Mary would still rather marry for material benefit rather than… Well, that was presuming that love hadn't been her motivation – but somehow, the idea of _that_ only made Matthew feel worse. Though, if Mary was happy, really and truly, then he must be happy for her.

He only hoped that she _was_. Something about their conversation after dinner the other night had bothered him, how cool, and careful, she had seemed; without the warm glow one might expect from a woman still within her first year of marriage (if indeed she loved her husband). But then, would he have exuded that warmth had he married Lavinia? For God's sake, it was a mess. _He_ was a mess.

And then, there was that definitely odd business of Carlisle's parting shot to him, which had played unceasingly on his mind. He sighed. How Carlisle could even _think_ Matthew might have intentions towards Mary when _married_, after having exchanged little more than two sentences together, was simply beyond belief. And how in the same breath he had claimed to not believe Matthew capable of it, unless… Mary had given some cause to think that – but no – that was too ridiculous to consider, and he must not even think it.

Before he'd quite realised it, Matthew found himself at the front door, and he felt no more prepared than he had done upon stepping out of the car. Only more troubled, and with a greater ache in his legs.

The ring of the bell, even from outside, echoed into the chill air. When the door opened, Matthew was more than a little surprised to see a familiar face.

"Good morning, Mr. Crawley," the butler's smile was difficult to read.

"Well, Barrow, you and I seem to run into each other in the strangest of circumstances! Thank you," Matthew smiled politely as the man he'd known as both soldier and footman took his heavy coat.

"If you'll permit me to say, Sir, I rather prefer this to tea in the trenches," Thomas said with a wry smile. "Sir Richard and Lady Mary are expecting you in the drawing room, I shall show you through."

Matthew nodded and followed him, the echo of his footsteps on the pale marble floor making him shiver a little. It was more than that; as he looked around him he could feel no welcoming warmth, no sense of it at all.

"It must be comforting for Lady Mary to have a familiar face here," said Matthew distractedly.

"I believe that was the intention in my appointment, Mr. Crawley. Sir Richard is keen to provide for her comfort, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Of course…"

Before he could wonder about Thomas' comment any further, they'd reached the drawing room. Matthew took a deep breath.

"Mr. Crawley's arrived, Sir Richard," and he was shown in.

The scene was perfectly domestic, and it sent a wave of nausea lurching in Matthew's gut. The room was beautiful, he couldn't deny. At an elegant desk in the large bay window sat Mary, where she looked to have been reading. When Matthew entered, though, she looked up at him for just a moment before his eyes followed her own to her husband. It was too quick for him to read her expression, though it was enough to know that it afforded no reassurance.

"Ah, Matthew. Welcome to our home!" Carlisle greeted him very deliberately. Matthew's smile was tight in response.

"It's very impressive."

"We like to think so," Carlisle's reply was distinctly smug. "Don't we, dear?" and he smiled at his wife.

Perhaps he didn't know that Matthew was well familiar with that difficult glint in Mary's eye.

"I know _you_ like to think so," her smile dripped with insincerity. "And it should, I suppose, after all the money you threw at it!" Oh, she was not going to play his game today.

She stood, smoothing down her skirts, without allowing her husband the chance to bite back at her. "Would you like tea now, Matthew, or shall we wait until you have witnessed the finery of Haxby? You may need it to recover yourself!"

Matthew's lips parted. He hadn't missed the faintly mocking tone in Mary's voice, nor the sharp frown (however swiftly recovered) it earned her from Carlisle. This was already far more uncomfortable than he had imagined.

"Well, I…" he flustered.

"I think perhaps tea afterwards, dear," Carlisle tried to smooth over the awkward pause, unwilling to allow his wife any greater opportunity to make things difficult and determined to achieve his aim with as little distraction beforehand as possible. "Gives the maids a chance to recover from their morning's work."

"How very considerate of you!" Mary smiled thinly.

She chose to hang back a little as her husband showed Matthew around. After all, she had no interest in showing off the latest wonders of her home. However impressive Sir Richard thought them, they meant little to her, and the very idea of showing them off she found slightly obscene – _particularly_ to Matthew.

"I suppose," Carlisle addressed Matthew as they passed across the magnificent staircase into the dining room, "that this is a rather different style of accommodation than you are used to, now!"

Matthew frowned at the floor for a moment, thankful for once that he had his cane to bear out his frustration on as his fingers gripped fiercely around it. The dig was obvious, and instead of the reaction he was sure Carlisle was hoping for, he smiled broadly. He certainly had no shame in it.

"Quite so; I reckon you could fit the whole of my Manchester apartment into your front hall without too much difficulty."

As he was saying this, Mary quietly considered how much more content she'd be to live with Matthew even in the tiniest apartment with a single room, rather than in this enormous, cold shell of a house with Richard. And how much it bothered her that Richard believed all _this_ to be impressive, and how little he understood her if he ever thought that she would.

And then, she heard the rest of Matthew's reply that followed her husband's quiet murmur of satisfaction. "It suits me perfectly well for now; in fact I hope to be content with it for many years before I shall have to make Downton my home."

"Naturally," Carlisle sniffed derisively, though it was barely a flicker over his cool façade. The tension was absolutely palpable, and it only made Mary smile, thinking that he thoroughly deserved it.

Matthew stared coldly at the long dining table. How excessive it seemed for two people. He imagined them dining there together, as if to taunt himself. To think of Mary, and Richard, in their home together… hurt him afresh in a way he hadn't imagined before. Before, it had been alright, when their marriage had been an abstract concept to him. A fact that he was aware of, but not an apparent one. One that, for the most part, he could forget about. But how could he ever, now, now that he'd seen them together in their home?

But what made him more uncomfortable than that, far more, was how utterly _dismal_ it felt. There was no warmth in the house at all, and all the expense Sir Richard may have thrown into its provision (a great deal; a fact he made painfully clear as they continued around) could not disguise it. And what became increasingly obvious – it was not his imagination, not a mere wishful fantasy, he was sure – was that Mary seemed to find it equally so.

"Of course, we had to stock it from scratch," Carlisle said now as they stood in the centre of the grand library.

"That must have been quite a task," Matthew murmured as he looked around at the books covering the walls, floor to ceiling. It was grand, it was all very grand, superlative, excessive. "I'm not sure I'd know where to start!" he freely admitted. Sure enough, the accomplishment in itself was impressive, and yet… Matthew was not impressed, nor was he in any awe of it, as Carlisle might perhaps wish him to be.

"No," Mary was in complete agreement with him. "And I certainly wouldn't care to repeat it. I'm not sure Richard even knows what more than half the titles are, do you dear?" Her tone was utterly lacking in any affection.

"I don't, nor do I have any intention of learning them!" Carlisle shrugged. "What would be the point?"

Matthew frowned. He couldn't imagine having books in his library that he didn't even know about, let alone care to read. What would be the point of _that_? Almost unconsciously (he had been doing it all morning, after all), he glanced at Mary to assuage her opinion. Her expression was entirely impassive as she watched her husband.

Carlisle had continued. "It hardly matters what they are, simply that they are there – it's the appearance that matters, it always is."

"Don't we know it, dear." There was no mistaking the iciness of Mary's tone, this time. "Our home might be rotten on the inside but so long as it doesn't _appear_ so that's quite alright, isn't it?"

He coolly raised an eyebrow at her. "Ideally, both the appearance and what lay inside would be equally strong, and you know I have put a great deal into making our home so."

"By intimidating the builders to complete the work to your standard? I wonder then whether they put their full heart into it, and whether the work shall hold."

Matthew observed the exchange with increasing discomfort, as the sense stirred in him that they spoke of far more than the stones and furnishings of their house. While Mary seemed not in the least concerned, there was evident tension across Carlisle's brow. He frowned, trying to add things up in his mind but not at all succeeding, beyond the uncomfortably dawning realisation that he could no longer deny; that Mary was certainly _not_ happy, as he had feared.

Feeling unwilling to witness, hear, or even at all experience any more of this unease between the couple, Matthew made an inane query about how fine the grounds were looking, and how he was sure that they must provide for many pleasant walks.

"They do," Mary said, this time _almost_ sounding fond. The tension lifted.

And so the tour continued, in a similar manner. In each room, Carlisle took great pains to point out the finest features, how much Mary had appreciated it (though her expression never quite seemed to match this assertion), reminding Matthew at every opportunity that it was _their_ home and she was _his_ wife and that she wanted for nothing at all due to _him_.

As if Matthew wasn't perfectly aware of that already.

He felt sick. He _knew_, he knew that he had lost her, he _knew_ now that it was Carlisle's sole intention to drive it home to him, and it took every ounce of his composure to keep his voice level and a polite smile plastered to his face. Equally apparent, though, had been Mary's obvious distaste for it, which left Matthew even more troubled.

When the time came for him to leave, claiming the excuse of an engagement with an old friend from Ripon, Matthew felt as though he couldn't get out fast enough. Everything about the house, about the whole situation, felt oppressive, cold, stifling, uncomfortable… It almost made him shudder. He tried not to notice how Mary's parting smile to him had seemed warmer than any expression he had seen from her all day. He needed to think, think desperately, though how his thoughts could be productive in any way he had really no idea…

Dismissing Barrow, Carlisle followed him to the door, on the pretext of showing him out, though Matthew wished he wouldn't.

"It's been a pleasure to have you here, Matthew," he said in that infuriatingly smooth, insincere way.

Matthew smiled thinly. "It was very kind of you to invite me, and of you and Lady Mary to welcome me here. It's most appreciated. It's been quite a revelation!"

"Has it?" he raised an eyebrow. Something about Mathew's reply indicated that it wasn't meant in the precise way that he had hoped, and his eyes glittered coldly. Everything about the younger man riled frustration in him, only this time more than ever before he was sure that Matthew's provoking words were intentional. Agitation had built within Richard since he had arrived and Mary's absolute insistence upon being as difficult as possible had brought him to the point of anger.

It snapped out before he could restrain himself. "I suppose you think yourself very clever, don't you. No doubt you imagine you have everything worked out, about myself and Lady Mary."

Matthew frowned sharply. "Perhaps you forget, Sir Richard, that it is my occupation to 'work things out'." He felt a greater affront at every word that passed the elder gentleman's lips. "Though what you believe there _is_ for me to discover, I can't imagine."

Carlisle visibly sneered. "Come, Matthew, don't play the fool. Do you suppose that Mary sees all this as merely an elegant facade, and will come running to your arms the moment you call her?"

"I can't speak for your wife," Matthew bit out in a voice like ice. "But if I suppose one thing, Sir Richard, it is to understand that she _is_ your wife. And no matter my personal opinions – though they're no business of yours – you may believe me with utter conviction that I'd never disregard that."

"I'm sure _you_ wouldn't." His voice was equally icy.

"Then you'll have to explain yourself, Sir, because I don't at all like your implication."

Tension bristled between the two men, at everything both spoken and unspoken between them.

Carlisle took a step closer to Matthew, taking advantage of his relative height.

"Don't you? You see, Matthew, I demonstrate concern over the _fancies_ of my wife because I know her to be weak to them."

"What?" At this moment, Matthew could hardly think of a time he had felt such an intense, unpleasant dislike for another person. What disturbed him more was that Carlisle almost seemed to be _enjoying_ this, whatever 'this' was… He hardly dared to think, but felt sure he was about to find out. He almost trembled with agitation.

"You appear slow at your occupation this afternoon," Carlisle smirked. "_Lady_ Mary, my wife, the very creature of elegant perfection… took a lover, once, who had the gall to die in her bed. A most unfortunate circumstance."

Matthew's face pinched in anger, his fist clenched by his side. The callousness of Carlisle was utterly beyond comprehension, to speak of _Mary_ in such a way…

"How dare you," he practically growled.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Carlisle's voice was still unruffled, still silken, still infuriating. "Ask her; she would not deny it. Kemal Pamuk was the man's name, whether you remember him or not I wouldn't know, but… well, there you have it. So you see, if you would still have her after that, she evidently has no qualms over her own virtue." Matthew was struggling, he could see, struggling to process this and he could almost smell his success. He pressed the advantage. "I took her, even after she had told me – yes, she revealed it before we were married – because I believed we could make something of a marriage."

Matthew's cane shook, he was clenching it so fiercely. No response seemed to do justice to the rage that he felt inside, and it was taking a great deal of effort to restrain his fist from flying squarely into the taller man's jaw.

"What on earth makes you think I'd believe such slander?" he eventually bit out.

"Because I do not lie," came the self-satisfied response. "I am a newspaper man, Mr. Crawley. It is my business to know these things, and to report them truthfully. I may omit certain facts, I may present them in a very careful, particular, way… but I will never lie."

A bitter, scornful laugh left Matthew's lips. But he was denied the opportunity for any further argument. "Now I believe," Carlisle said, with a flick of his head, "that my driver is waiting to take you home. I am sorry to have disappointed your opinion of my wife, but there it is. Good day, Matthew."

Matthew's lips parted wordlessly, and he turned to look at the waiting, car, then back at Carlisle. There was nothing… nothing for now. He steeled himself, realised that any further action just now would be foolish and very, very misguided. No, he needed to think. Whether it was true… He couldn't believe it. But if it was? It changed things. He wasn't quite sure how, yet, but it very definitely did. And if it wasn't… Either way, he could not lie at rest with it now.

"Good day, Sir Richard," he muttered coldly, taking a step down onto the driveway, feeling Carlisle's eyes burning uncomfortably into his back. To face now the insult of having his own driver take him home, too… Oh, it was unbearable! How Matthew wished he could dismiss it, but… there was really no way he could get home, if not. Damn it all.

Sir Richard watched him climb awkwardly into the car, and watched it depart until it grew smaller and finally disappeared around the bend. That, he thought with a satisfied smirk, should quite well have done the trick.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! I'm genuinely very curious to know your thoughts on this chapter, and as always it's generally wonderful to know your thoughts, so of course reviews will be enormously appreciated! Thank you so much! (Goodnight!)_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _So, have we had enough Christmas fluff now? I do hope so. Now for something completely different..._

_I'd love to say an enormous thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter, I was completely bowled over - you're all wonderful! And enormous thanks of course to EOlivet, who is always incredibly supportive even when I'm writing things like this!  
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_Just remember, Matthew appreciates a good argument..._

_Enjoy...? :) (And, um.. Sorry!)  
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><p><strong><span>Chapter Four<span>**

At the definite slam of the front door, Isobel startled. Twisting slightly on the settee to see the door, she heard Matthew's muttered greeting to Molesley, followed by his agitated steps down the hall. When he opened the door with entirely more force than was necessary and saw her wide eyes already with curiosity burning in them, he let out a harsh sigh and made his way straight to the drinks cabinet with, Isobel noticed, his old limp just a little more noticeable than usual.

"How was Haxby, dear?"

"Perfectly fine." Brandy now in hand, he sat heavily down and glowered at the carpet.

Isobel waited a moment.

"Yes, I – thought you must have had a pleasant time, from your demeanour just now," she said testingly. Matthew only glared at her.

His mind hadn't stopped whirling since he'd left Haxby. Thoughts had barraged his mind, memories and possibilities and feelings that he didn't want to face. He felt dreadfully uncomfortable, sore, sick, and shifted in his chair. His mother's gaze was heavy on him.

Wetting his lips, he sighed again and tried to force his expression to soften. He supposed he'd better say _something_.

"It was – very grand," he eventually settled on. "The grounds were beautiful." But his voice was heavy and dispirited.

"Ah, I'm sure. And the Carlisles, were they well?"

"Seemed it, yes."

"Well, that's good." She folded her hands over her book. "Would you like some tea?"

"No. Thank you."

Isobel watched her son carefully, his piercing frown into space as his lips pursed tightly together. He was such a mystery to her, now, and her heart weighed heavy. She could try and press him, she supposed; but any attempt would only be shut down with silence and snappy retorts and sulking. Anyway, what would be the point? She had a fair idea what had bothered him, but it couldn't exactly be remedied, now. She longed to comfort him. If only she could gather him in her arms as she had when he was a small boy, kissing his bruised knees and wiping his tears and letting him know that somehow everything was alright. Only he wasn't a small boy any more; he was a grown, proud, stubborn man, and everything was not alright. What was in his head, how could she make it better? She'd rarely felt more helpless.

Matthew swallowed the rest of his brandy in a single gulp. For a few moments, he tapped his fingers, listening distractedly to the ring of his short fingernails against the glass.

"Mother?"

"Yes, Matthew." She closed her book gently in her lap, and waited. It seemed to take an age for him to gather the nerve to say whatever was in his mind, but she waited, patiently, until his eyes snapped to hers with a strange, desperate intensity.

"Why do you think Mary married him?"

Isobel's lips parted wordlessly. She hadn't expected him to be quite so direct. And she wasn't quite sure how to answer.

"I… Well, how am I possibly to know that? She had her reasons, I'm sure."

"Yes but love wasn't one of them, was it?"

Ah; that hadn't been what he'd wanted. She frowned.

"I'm not sure it's our place to wonder, Matthew," she said carefully. She understood him well enough, but what good could come of it now? What did the reason matter; it was done! And the sooner he moved on from it, the better.

He knew that; oh, how well he knew it! But he couldn't let this rest. Not now. Carlisle's accusation of her stung in his mind. It changed things. Not between them; nothing could change that. But it changed things for _her_, it had to have done. How, though? Oh, he should not have stayed away all this time! Anger swirled in his gut at himself.

Another pregnant silence hung in the air. Finally, Matthew's sharp intake of breath heralded his speech.

"Would she really have married for money?" Accusation and disappointment rang in his tone. "Would that have been enough? Really?"

Wearily, Isobel's hand passed over her face. What on earth did he hope to achieve by this, to satisfy himself upon?

"I hardly know." Her tone was slow, measured, calming; for she knew that her words were not. "You thought it would tempt her, once. Perhaps it did again. You of all people know how hard it is to guess Cousin Mary's feelings."

Matthew looked wounded, and she felt desperately sorry. But really, what could she say! Hoping it might encourage him somewhat, she shifted forwards on the settee, to provide a nearer presence to him.

"But…" His voice shook, and he pressed his lips together, thankful for the glass still in his hand to grip onto. "She isn't happy, Mother. And if that were the reason… wouldn't she be satisfied with it?"

"Matthew, dear…" Leaning forwards, she grasped his free hand where it lay on the arm of his chair. "Whether she is or not, whatever her reasons, I'm… sorry to say, but it seems a little late to worry over. She chose to marry him, and did so, and you can't change that now."

"Don't I know it!" Matthew snapped, withdrawing his hand sharply to clench into a balled fist on his lap.

Isobel sighed gently, leaning back a little. Matthew glanced at her apologetically, though without any move to reconcile. "Sorry," he muttered. "I just… I want her to be alright. That's all."

Feeling regrettably resigned, Isobel realised the hopelessness of his despair. There was no comfort she could offer him. Only the truth.

"I know, my dear." She stood, and placed her hand on his shoulder; he flinched, but still she bent to kiss his head. "But she is not your responsibility to care for, and there is nothing to be done about that I'm afraid."

As she left, the echo of Matthew's deep, bitter sigh followed her. He clearly felt he had failed, and she certainly felt she had failed him, but… it seemed quite helpless.

After a restless, troubled night's sleep, Matthew woke with his thoughts somewhat clarified into resolve. He'd thought, and thought, and thought about it, and no matter which way he looked at it he kept coming back to one thing. The only thing, that could've tempted her to marry a man with whom she was so clearly unhappy.

He was silent as Molesley dressed him, and passed only a few words with his mother at breakfast. When she asked where he was going out, he told her he hadn't decided yet and just needed some air. This was a lie. Part of him (just a small part) felt remorse for it, but he knew that if he were truthful she would only have argued against such a course of action.

Would she have been right to do so? He wondered as the cab bore him to Haxby. Perhaps. She was right in one sense; Mary had made her choice and it could hardly be reversed now. If only he'd stayed, talked to her, stopped her… But he hadn't, and that (as so many other things) was his fault alone. No, he wasn't going now to 'fix' anything, he just… needed to know. Once he'd heard it from her lips, once he _understood_, it would be alright. This horrible air between them needed clearing, and… Well, he cared. No, perhaps he shouldn't, but he did. And he wanted her to know that, at least, too.

Stepping out of the cab when they finally arrived, he asked the driver to wait with the promise of full repayment for his time. Then, gripping his hat as if to steel himself, he rang the bell.

Barrow's surprise when he opened the door was expected, but well-covered.

"Hello, Mr. Crawley," he exclaimed, having never quite lost that tone of gentle irreverence, even now. "I'm – afraid you've missed Sir Richard, he's attending to some business elsewhere."

"I know," Matthew snapped impatiently. On reflection, it probably wasn't the best thing to have said. "I was hoping to speak to Lady Mary. Is she in?"

"I'll – go and see, Sir," Barrow's eyebrow rose just a fraction. As he turned to go in, though, Matthew took half a step forward. Oh, he knew it was not _proper_ to visit a lady alone, at least not with so obvious an intention of doing so. But he met the butler's eyes in a silent plea, hoping that even that slight bond they shared from so brief a meeting in the trenches might count for _something_.

The flicker that passed Barrow's face was inscrutable; but whatever his motive, he bowed to Matthew's wish.

"Alright, Mr. Crawley. I believe Lady Mary's in the morning room, if you'd like to follow me…"

"Thank you," he said earnestly, handing over his hat and coat before being led across the cavernous hall.

If Barrow had looked mildly surprised at his appearance, Mary looked positively panicked when Matthew was announced to her. She spun in her chair, clutching the back of it for security as she stared at him with wide eyes. Why had he come? He couldn't be here! Lord, if Richard knew (and there was little doubt he would be informed of it immediately upon his return)…

"Matthew!" She stood, pressed her hands together, trying to grasp some semblance of control from her already spiralling feelings.

"Mary." He strode purposefully into the room. "Forgive me for coming unexpectedly; I…" He trailed off, and looked pointedly at Barrow. Mary held her breath, and nodded.

"Thank you, Barrow. Mr. Crawley won't be long." Her voice was ice, and chilled Matthew. She could hardly assign him another duty; that would look too suspicious, but she did not want him here listening! Certainly not so obviously; though she doubted she could prevent the press of his ear to the door.

Matthew waited while he left, before turning back to Mary, eye's glittering in determination, but she cut over him before he could speak. "Matthew, what on _earth_ are you doing here?"

He looked at her. Should she appear different to him now? Whether or not she _should_; she didn't. That cheered him, somehow, slightly. Remembering his purpose, he wasted no time with pleasantries.

"I…" He took another breath. "Mary, did you only marry Carlisle to stop him releasing the story about you and that – that diplomat, Pamuk, in the press?"

"What?"

Mary felt winded. She took a physical step backwards, reeling from him. How did he… When had he… _Why_ did he know? Matthew pressed on into her silence.

"Because I can see no other reason. You don't love him, that much is obvious, and I can't – I can't believe you would have been swayed by _this_," he waved his arm at the grandeur around them; "You quite clearly think it as vulgar as I do, and –"

"How dare you," she hissed, voice trembling fearfully. She was shaken, desperately shaken. Matthew's widened eyes only spurred her on. "How _dare_ you come into my house and accuse me of – of –"

"Is it true?" Matthew was undeterred. "Is that why you married him?"

"It's no business of yours, Matthew! None at all!"

Her hands balled into fists clutching at her skirt, how _could_ he do this and didn't he _realise_ that nothing could come of it? Bitterness raged through her, and anger; why was he doing this to her now when he had thrown her away all those months ago?

Matthew matched her fierce glare.

"I know, I… I _know_, Mary." He drew in a breath and stepped forwards again. "But if Carlisle were capable of that, then… I just want to know that you're alright. That you'll _be_ alright. Because if he's… unkind to you, in any way –" It broke his heart and his voice even to hint at such a thing, and Mary gasped in shock. Matthew swallowed; his hand half stretched out to her in a gesture of appeasement, or comfort, or _something_, which she only backed away from. "Please, tell me."

In truth, he didn't know what he was thinking. He wanted to help, though he couldn't; well, only if it were _that_ bad and if it weren't (dear God, please let it not be _that_ bad!) then maybe she was alright, he only needed her to tell him that…

But she was not in his debt, she owed him nothing. The very opposite, in fact.

"Please leave." Her voice shook, and her lips pressed together as hot tears stung the back of her eyes. Without giving him a chance to say any more, she crossed the room to the bell and rang it. "There. Thomas is on his way," She slipped without thinking into the more familiar name for him, "and will show you out without any fuss."

"Mary –"

"No." Her eyes were wild at him. "You have no right, the least of anyone, to come here and question my marriage."

Matthew recoiled as her bitter words stung him. Only because he knew she was right did it hurt so much. _The least of anyone_. They could only glare at each other in stunned, uncomfortable silence for the thankfully brief moments it took before Barrow swung open the door with unnerving calm.

"Is everything alright, Milady?" He stared politely into the space between them.

"Yes. Mr. Crawley is just on his way out." Her hands clasped painfully tightly in front of her in a vain attempt to stop them visibly shaking.

"Of course, Milady."

He stepped back and waited, while Matthew's tortured, piercing gaze trapped her own for just a second too long before he spun on his heel and left. The second the door closed behind them, Mary sank into her chair, her breath coming in quick, panicked pants. He knew. Her insufferable cousin _knew_ and came here, and _knew_, and she began to despair of ever escaping his terrible, wonderful hold over her.

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><p>It was the following day, and once again Matthew had barely slept. He supposed he should've expected nothing less. What <em>had<em> he been thinking, going there like that? Of course she'd been furious.

Stuffing his hands further into his pockets, he stood in the falling snow, welcoming the coldness of it on the back of his neck as he stared contemplatively at Lavinia's grave. How had he reached this pitiful state? He went through it in his mind, ticked off every error in a familiar routine, every slip of the tongue and judgement that had brought him irrevocably to this, adding to them his actions of the past day. He never should have come back here. The moment he did, always, his life seemed to spiral out of his control.

He crouched, with a little difficulty, and brushed the snow from where it covered her name. Closure, that was what he'd hoped for, what he'd sought. An end to his torture, some confidence that Mary was settled and that everything was better here without him so that he could go back to Manchester assured that he'd done the right thing. But once again, he hadn't, and now all those terrible wounds were open and sore and he deserved every ounce of misery on him. But _Mary_ didn't, and… Lord, had he only made it worse for her, too?

Rising painfully to his feet, he took one last look at the headstone that seemed to stand for his every mistake.

Slowly, he turned and trudged back down the path, opened the gate and turned in to Crawley House. His hand was almost on the doorknob when he heard a familiar (too painfully familiar) voice behind him.

"Matthew?"

Blinking heavenward for strength as his breath stuck in his throat, he turned around. She hesitated by the gate, looking flighty and on edge. Matthew shrugged.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," he said weakly.

Mary took this as invitation enough, and walked hesitantly towards him; glancing around her first as if to see that no-one had seen. It was only as she drew closer that Matthew noticed the small, sad smile hovering on her lips.

"You're not the only one. I was – shocked," she shook her head lightly at him.

"I don't blame you." Matthew's lips twitched into a regretful smile to match her own. "It was very foolish of me."

"Maybe." She waited a moment, as if gathering strength; and Matthew watched her, as if somehow he thought that it might be his last opportunity to do so. "Still, you – probably didn't deserve to be thrown out quite so coldly, and I wish I hadn't had to do it. You're… probably wondering why I'm here."

"I am, rather," he admitted openly.

Mary drew a steadying breath. "I'm here to apologise, Matthew. And to say goodbye."

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thanks so much for reading! I now suggest you go and read something fluffy, and remember that IN CANON THEY ARE HAPPY. Yes. :)_ _Reviews will be HUGELY appreciated and rewarded with big virtual hugs across the internet. :) (And again... Sorry!)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Happy Monday!_

_And now, for something completely different. After writing potloads of fluff and smut, I've turned my eye back to this little baby, who has been neglected since Christmas. I'd strongly reccommend having a glance over the previous chapter before reading just to remind yourself what's going on!_

_I guess as well I'd just like to reiterate that this entire plot has been sitting in its entirety in my head since November, when we had no CS hope to look forward to... and I haven't changed it since. IDK, I just wanted you to know that!_

_Thanks as ever to dear EOlivet for making sure I've kept them in line! :)_

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

Matthew's hand rested lightly on the doorknob as he looked at her, blinking slowly and contemplatively. All politeness was momentarily forgotten at the sight and the thought of her, and her declared intentions.

"I – don't understand," he said quietly, shivering as a lone snowflake fell upon his cheek, which felt suddenly unbearably hot.

Mary smiled faintly, her shoulders rising into a little shrug. Of course he didn't understand. Her eyes glanced over his face, every little line and shadow and curve, almost wistfully.

"No." Of course he didn't understand. He had no reason to! But that was why she was here, wasn't it. To set things straight, to make him see, and then… She glanced back over her shoulder before taking another, hesitant step towards Matthew.

There was something like pleading in her eyes, as Matthew continued to wordlessly stare at her, as if making sure of her very presence. "Look," she clutched anxiously at her bag. "Do you think – could we speak privately? Well, I – I'd rather not stand on the doorstep to talk to you, but I'd rather we weren't disturbed at all! If that's… If that's alright."

"Oh, of – course…" Matthew blinked and shook his head, seeming to have entirely forgotten to actually ask her in. He was too distracted, couldn't think… And then seemed to forget Mary was there entirely as he stepped inside himself, leaving her on the doorstep.

Mary waited nervously, shifting from foot to foot. She heard his muffled voice say something to Molesley, and then fading footsteps. Her lips parted as her neck craned forwards a little, frowning as she wondered what on earth he was doing.

At last, his head reappeared around the door, and Mary smiled. She couldn't help but feel, despite everything – but, no – no, that wasn't why she was here.

Matthew opened the door a little wider for her. "Please, come in." Mary quickly hurried inside, and held her hand up when Matthew held his out for her coat.

"No, it's alright," she shook her head. She really… really didn't want any fuss over this. It would be better if no-one knew she was here at all. Far better that way. Really, she shouldn't be, but… she _had_ to come, of course she did. "Thank you."

Matthew nodded. "Right. Well – Mother's out, but – look, I don't know when she'll be back so we can talk in my study if you'd rather. I've told Molesley I'd someone to see me and didn't want disturbing, so – if you'd like –"

"Yes! Yes, thank you. I appreciate that, Matthew." Her heart twinged as she thought of how instinctively he understood her. How he always had… Oh, but she mustn't carry on thinking that way!

She followed him through the house, looking around with a measure of curiosity. She really… hadn't been here very much. Once or twice, if she thought in all honesty, and only ever as far as the sitting room… and yet it felt so very _Matthew_, here. She couldn't help the unconscious drag of her mind to wonder… how things might have been, if… If… She squashed the dangerous train of thought almost as soon as it started. She followed him upstairs. Doors were spaced along the corridor but they went into the first, almost on the corner, just at the top of the stairs. She found her heart racing alarmingly as Matthew closed the door behind her, before he moved to shuffle things around on his desk.

He waved her towards one of the chairs, but she declined. He nodded. They stood, awkwardly, uncomfortably, facing each other. When had things become like this between them? So awkward, so difficult? Mary felt sad, for a fleeting moment, before reminding herself that this was best. Really, this was best.

She realised, then, that Matthew was looking expectantly at her.

"Mary, you said you'd come to…" he waved his hand vaguely, encouraging her to go on. This silence was unbearable, after how they'd parted yesterday, and he couldn't think what –

"To apologise. For – throwing you out so coldly yesterday, I hadn't meant –"

"You had every right to," he insisted firmly. "I should never have –"

"No, you don't understand!"

Matthew hushed immediately at her tone, and Mary rocked a little on her feet. She needed to calm down! She took a breath and started again. "It wasn't because I was _angry_, though I – _was_ – it wasn't that. We couldn't – Matthew, don't you see that it was impossible for you to come to me there? Whatever might have been said between us, it couldn't possibly have been said there. If Richard had known…"

"Your husband was out," Matthew said, the term dripping coldly from his lips.

Mary frowned. "Precisely! Don't you see how that looks?"

"Much the same as you visiting me here alone looks, I'd imagine."

"Which is why _I_ took sure care not to be seen coming!" she snapped back. Why were they even fighting about this? There was such tension between them, palpable discomfort, distrust, they weren't sure of each other… It was almost physically painful.

"But there was only – Thomas –" Matthew floundered. It felt somehow as though he were swimming against a current, of _what_ he didn't know. He didn't understand. Why she was here, what she meant, what she wanted, and the very prospect of any of it terrified him as much as intrigued him. He felt the walls close in. Wasn't Thomas there precisely _for_ Mary? To be on her side? "Surely you can trust him!"

"Can I?" Mary laughed incredulously, a darkness coming over her features. "Did you know that my _husband_ once offered Anna money to report to him my business?"

"No. I –"

"Then do you really think Thomas is above bowing to such an allowance?" She was getting more and more worked up as she spoke, her gloved hands clutching tighter at her purse.

"No! I… No." Matthew raised a hand to calm her, but Mary physically turned herself from him, staring fixedly at a paper on his desk. At the bottom was his inky signature, the scrawl of his name, indelibly… binding…

She shuddered, her blackness only broken again by his soft voice. "Mary, are you… If Sir Richard knew, if Carlisle knew I had seen you, are you saying he would… hurt you?"

When she looked up again, she saw fear and ice, terrible in his pale blue eyes, and nothing beyond. Her lip trembled before she calmed, with a slight shake of her head.

"No. No, I don't believe he would, or I don't – think so, at least. He never has, you mustn't worry about that." If it were his place to worry at all, which it _wasn't_, nothing to do with her was Matthew's concern only she… she longed for it, and sought it, and here it was despite all the anguish it caused her. She sighed heavily, glancing at him from weary eyes. "I am saying that… he is not above underhand measures to get what he wants. I'm saying… that you were right. Yesterday. About all of it."

"About… Oh. Oh, Mary."

Drawing a sharp breath in, Matthew stepped instinctively towards her, only to halt as she seemed to almost flinch away from him. Everything. The… Turk, her marriage, her husband, her happiness, it was all… Matthew felt his heart crush in a vice-like grip of sorrow.

"Don't pity me, Matthew," she whispered fiercely, clutching her purse still like a barrier between them. "That isn't why I'm here."

He pressed his lips together. "But there must have been another way, surely –"

"What other way!" she laughed. "I could have lived a ruined spinster, with my family in shame, would that have been better?"

"You wouldn't have had to be a –"

"Who would have taken me, Matthew?" she cried desperately, all her long-withheld anger bubbling to the surface. It _was_ wrong, it had _all_ been wrong but it was too late! "Would _you_ have?"

"If I'd have known –"

"You never gave me the chance!" Her chest rose sharply and fell, she saw his do the same, the thick, silent air echoing with their desperate breaths. "At least not – not when it seemed to matter."

Matthew felt wounded, and bit his lip, glaring at her almost in accusation (though really any accusation he held could only be levelled at himself).

"What do you mean?" His voice was low and bitter. Oh, he knew, _God_ how he _knew_ he had let the chance slip through his fingers after Lavinia's death. She wasn't happy, he could've stopped it, if he'd been here he could've… But it was too damned_ late_ now so…

Mary swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter, it's too late to –"

"It _matters_!" She flinched back again at the sharpness of his tone. He seemed almost wild, but it was… too _late_… Only when his shoulders dropped a little (though they still seemed to shake with tension) did she speak again.

She shrugged helplessly.

"I was too scared to tell you when you would have taken me, Matthew. That is it. Please, don't –"

The pieces began to fall into place, and Matthew began to tremble, his body rigid and wired with discomfort and anguish.

"When I would've… When I asked…"

"Yes."

"But you – you told _him_?" Carlisle's words rang bitterly in his ears. She had told him, and he had taken her anyway. "Mary I might've, if _you'd_ have given _me_ the chance –"

"Only to save my own neck!" she exclaimed. Her knuckles were almost white. "You see the difference was I didn't _care_ about –" She gasped, drawing herself up as if she'd been about to reveal far, far too much.

"Mary…"

"No. No, Matthew, it is – consigned to the past, like so much else, like everything one day _has_ to be. I didn't come here to talk about that."

Matthew felt as though his throat were on fire with burning tears, waiting, waiting to leap up and sting his eyes. He felt his fingers tremble; he pinched them together, curled them, flexed them, anything to distract him.

"Then why _are_ you here?" he bit out. It seemed that so far she had only come to torture him. He could do that well enough himself, alone, without her.

Mary blinked fiercely, determined not to let her tears fall before him. _This_, she wanted to scream, _this_ was why!

"I told you," she said with unnerving calmness. The space between them seemed as non-existent as it seemed cavernous. "I wanted to apologise to you, because I couldn't have borne to leave things between us as they were yesterday." Matthew nodded. "And now I am saying goodbye."

"Goodbye? But –" Matthew frowned, it didn't make sense… He remembered, now, as though he'd forgotten. She'd said that as she'd arrived. She'd come to say goodbye. He blinked pleadingly at her.

"I shan't be seeing you again." There. She'd said it. Her shoulders trembled, it was the most difficult (perhaps) thing she'd done in her life but she had to, she _had_ to…

Matthew didn't understand. A wild sort of panic rose in his chest.

"But, Christmas day, surely – I don't leave until –"

"I shall be unwell on Christmas day, you see. I'll have a – headache, or something – I'll spend the day quite contentedly in bed."

"I don't – why?"

"Oh, Matthew!" She wanted to shake him; would she have to spell it out? "It's easier, don't you see? You know how unbearable it was the other night – how unbearable it was when you visited us! Don't you imagine that Richard will be taking every chance he can to make things difficult, particularly now that he's told you – _that_ –"

"But why would he –"

"Stop being so stupid, Matthew, please!" she finally cried, exasperated to the point of weakness.

He swallowed uncomfortably, glowering darkly, not quite meeting her eyes. He couldn't.

"There isn't – _anything_ between us…" he muttered shakily, with bitter determination. "There isn't, there – _can't_ be… Mary you shouldn't have to hide from – if anything _I_ should –"

"You have run far enough already." Her voice rang heavily with regret, with sadness, with loss. He had had the _chance_ to run. And it had worked, it had _worked_! Until he had come _back_, that was why… "You are here to see your family, Matthew. They have missed you. I live – only a short drive away, they will see me again – this way is only right."

They looked at each other. Cold, dark understanding dawned sickeningly between them. Of course it was easier. Because… Because… Every time they were together, it was painful. It hurt. It damaged them, it damaged those around them, the atmosphere, the air… They were toxic. They must not see each other. While he was away… there was peace. There had been peace, for both of them, for everyone. It was devastating, but… horribly true.

Mary blinked slowly at him, seeing the awareness and acceptance in his eyes. "You see why this has to be goodbye," she reiterated in no more than a whisper.

He bowed his head, still looking at her, still held by her.

"For now, yes. But Mary we can't – avoid each other forever, we're family and –"

"We'll – cross that bridge when we come to it, Matthew. There will always be a way. Maybe we'll have – moved away, maybe there'll be a…" Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it bitterly down. A _child_, maybe there'd be a child, for surely then there could be nothing at all, no danger… "We'll manage," she gasped.

Matthew nodded again, more jerkily this time, as if he were desperately, wretchedly trying to convince himself. He felt dizzy, shifted on his feet to steady himself, dragged a hand through his hair.

"I know. Though – Mary, I can't – I can't bear the thought of _never –_"

"Oh, don't you see?" Her voice cracked, brokenly, as she shook her head in despair, taking a half step towards him as if it could possibly comfort the gaping ache in his chest. "Don't you see that that's precisely _why_?" Because she felt it too. The thought of never seeing Matthew again… The pain that had eaten at her through the war rushed sharply back to her. Of him taken from her, against her will, against her strength, she was to be robbed of him only this time it _must_ be. It was utterly unbearable.

"I know!" His tightly balled fists shook by his sides. His jaw clenched in desperate sorrow, those tears of fire burning now behind his eyes, threatening. He couldn't do this! "I know but I lo–"

_No_. Before the word had fully formed on his lips, he squeezed them shut, and his eyes; stopping it, clinging to that last, pitiful shred of denial. If he didn't say it… It wouldn't be… Not between them…

Until he felt her hand touch his arm. He jerked sharply, as if stung, his eyes flying open to lock onto hers.

"Say it," she whispered tremulously.

"I can't. I shouldn't."

"Please…" Her voice was barely breath on her lips, whispering in front of him, drowning him as he became transfixed. "Please, Matthew. Just this once. So that I know, then I can… bear anything, if I just know that –"

"I love you."

His voice shook uncontrollably, he could hardly force the words from his lips though they fell so naturally and she was suddenly so close to him and…

A half a smile, a dry sob, both wrenched from Mary's lips for a flash of a moment before both gestures were lost against Matthew's, their arms wrapping tightly, instinctively around each other as their mouths met in a demanding, desperate storm of longing, love, regret and passion.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading. I found this strangely cathartic to write! There's one more chapter to go, if things go according to plan. I'd love to know your thoughts - I can't express how much I appreciate your comments! Thank you! :) OH - the rating will be going up to M, next chapter, so do make sure you've got an alert if you don't regularly check there.  
><em>


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Happy Monday!_

_Here's the final chapter of OCITE, though it pains me to say it!_

_I shan't say too much more here, except to thank you so much for your responses so far, and to... reiterate that this is the ending to the fic that has been in my head from its very conception, and well... I hope you'll appreciate it for what it is!_

_ETA: I really must owe enormous thanks to EOlivet, not only for encouraging this fic from it's beginning but because it was her comment which inspired it to start with, and her LJ post this week on a line of Matthew's in the CS went a great way to building this chapter beyond what I'd originally thought. She's a treasure!  
><em>

_...enjoy!  
><em>

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Six<span>**

_Pleasure. Torture. Desperation. Yearning. Fulfilment. Aching. Love. _All these feelings, more, too many, flooded through Matthew in a blinding storm as Mary's lips crushed against his, his arms crushing her body against his, her own hands clinging desperately to him. All thought and sense ground to a halt as her fingers twisted into his hair, and they swayed together, frozen in shock and a kind of awe at the suddenness of their passion.

After an endless moment of stunned, unthinking pleasure, their lips broke apart with a gasp (though their hands kept them prisoner against each other), their wide eyes meeting and questioning.

Only for a moment, though, before they saw passion and desire reflected in the other's eyes, _felt_ their mutual need thrum helplessly through their bodies before they surrendered to it. Because they couldn't possibly, and yet they _were_, Matthew's broken admission of that which Mary had long hoped for ringing whispered in the air between them. _I love you_. And she knew it, now, knew it as he kissed her, sucking her lower lip between his own, his nose pressing to her hot cheek as they shifted impossibly closer, she knew it as his hands fisted into her coat, as they slipped up until his fingers plunged into the thick locks of her hair beneath her hat that she tugged off to ease his access. His groan was hot, and desperate, into her mouth as his fingers stilled, careful and considerate as he ever was that there must be no sign of this later.

As their heated kiss deepened, and long-repressed arousal inevitably flamed, they were painfully, desperately aware of where it must, inevitably, lead. Matthew's hands drew back to trace her cheeks, her beautiful, freckled, porcelain cheeks that were softer under his fingers than he remembered from his dreams…

"This cannot happen," he ground out, even as he knew it had _already_ happened, enough to condemn them at least. His eyes glittered with passion and regret but all Mary could see was his swollen, glistening lips, lips which were soft and beautiful and that had said the most beautiful words to her (yet had also caused her such pain, in their past).

"Would you stop it now?" she whispered, willing him to break from her now if he felt he must because she couldn't… She couldn't muster the strength to leave his arms of her own volition, not now that she was wrapped so tightly within them.

Matthew swallowed. "Mary, you're… You have a husband, you are _married_ –"

"By law and deed only! My – mind, and my – heart, are my own and not in any part my husband's –"

"God, Mary…" His eyes pressed closed, forehead leaning against hers as his low, shaking voice sent a shiver rippling through Mary's body. "Don't –" _Don't tempt me_, he wanted to scream at her. She couldn't know, couldn't possibly know how weak he was to her, how easily he would give, even as he felt himself crumble…

"Oh God, haven't I already been punished enough for my sins?" Her forehead fell to his shoulder, hands clutching weakly at him as they trembled together. "Please, Matthew," she whispered fiercely. "Please, if we are to part for all good then give me this to bear it with…"

"My darling, don't – say that –" It was impossible, and he held her tighter, his lips brushing against her ear as he begged her with the last scraps of control that he had (fading quickly as the affection slipped past his lips) to keep them from this irretraceable path. "Please, Mary –"

"Just – once. This once is all it can ever be, and let me… Let me have this once, to know how it is with someone I –"

"My God –"

"– someone I love!"

She was on the verge of sobbing into his chest, fingers clutching at the lapels of his jacket as his breath trembled in hot pants against her neck. This was all too much, too much… Her admission rocked him to his core. Not only that she… loved him… But, he realised with a sick twist in his gut, she had been… taken, now, by _two_ men who – she _didn't love_. And she… _did_ love… him.

He couldn't breathe, he felt sick, despair and sorrow churning alongside arousal that stirred low in his belly at the knowledge that she wanted this. Him. And this was… it. This was their one chance, of all the times he had longed for her, to _know_ her, had wished for her in his arms… She was here, _they_ were here, they had the chance and would never again, and it was within his reach and desire to do so, that they might cling to this if they were to part from this day on.

The very idea was terribly, terribly wrong. _Wrong_. Mary was married… But, hadn't they sinned already? Hadn't he ruined any moral code he'd had when he'd taken her in his arms as Lavinia lay on her sickbed, when he'd left her then to marry a man who had blackmailed her? He grimaced against her neck, shaking, his lips brushing softly against her skin. If he hated himself, _loathed_ himself, after this, wouldn't he deserve to – didn't he deserve to anyway? If he was to be miserable, alone, wretched, _punished_… God, then let him be punished for this…

His lips shifted more purposefully against her neck, and she whimpered, tugging helplessly at his jacket as she sensed his silent assent. It was inevitable, _had_ been inevitable, they realised, the moment their lips had met in that first, blinding kiss. They were weak, wrong, powerless against this, against each other.

As Matthew's lips found their way back to Mary's, any last shreds of resistance and propriety crumbled. Their kiss was demanding, visceral; eight years of longing and an empty, desolate future crashing together in this glorious present as they took each other as they had only ever dreamed of. Soft pants, groans, whimpering breaths cracked the heavy silence as lips sucked, tongues slid together and tasted, trembling hands sought to shed the restrictions of fabric and modesty as they somehow sank together to the floor, overlaid with a thick, soft rug.

She felt that rug against her back as Matthew undressed her, the heat of his lips following his hands as every piece fluttered from her body. She felt his groan reverberate against her bare skin, his teeth grazing her, marking her, and she laughed through her sob of passion at the sheer wonderfulness of it. His hands were warm… So warm, and soft, his skin as she tugged his shirt from his shoulders was taut, and smooth, and _hot_… Her hands slid around his torso to his back, fingers marking his scarred flesh as he writhed over her, the soft, heated pressure of his lips dusting her neck… She turned her head to the side to ease his way, biting back tears as her vision filled with his forearm bracing beside her head, muscles flexing as he clutched at the rug, the scattering of thick, fair hair over his arm in contrast to the soft, pale skin on the underside that she ached to press her lips to… and beyond that, the soft piles of silk and cotton where her clothes lay, bunched and discarded beside them.

Was this a dream, or a fantasy, or a nightmare? Matthew truly had no idea. Every cell of his body flamed and pulsed with arousal, arousal at an intimacy that he was stealing, that was not his to take, and he burned with the shame of it… though Mary was giving it to him of her own free will, giving _herself_ to him, and sharp pangs of despair that he must commit it all to memory for it _could not be_ pricked and mingled with the flames of desire, till his body was a quivering mass of pure sensation and emotion. And it… it was too much for him to bear.

He kissed her, deeply, slowly, placing a hand carefully under her head that the rug might not disarray her hair. He could feel her body beneath him, the pure skin of her breasts against his chest, firm and beautiful and he… could not think, could not dream, of how to realise this perfection. His hands trembled, and he allowed her to guide him… Arching his back to watch, breathlessly, as her hand covered his and slid it to her breast, and he gasped as he felt her body beneath his palm, and she moaned as his mouth instinctively followed. His lips closed over her breast, his tongue slicking over and across, around, together in a burning caress and she shuddered at his touch, biting her lip as with every sensation caused by _him_ the memory of those who had taken her body before was purged, as it all faded beyond her consciousness in the face of the heady wonder of _Matthew_, his every touch that would forever surpass the thought of any other.

Matthew's breath hummed around her breast, releasing in a soft, low moan of pleasure as he felt her buck beneath him. He gasped, passed his tongue over again, and over, breath catching as she caught his hand once more in a tight grip and urged him down… Their hands sliding together down her taut abdomen, his body shuffling down to follow as his lips traced the same path, settling at the top of her thigh as her urgent fingers pushed his own between her trembling legs and… _there_.

He glanced up at her, once, meeting her eyes in a shock of passion before his lips again followed his hand, in a gesture she'd never expected, anticipated or even dreamed of, as his mouth covered that most intimate part of her and took long, slow, deep tastes of her, and she _felt_ his groan of delight as her hips bucked helplessly against his tongue. She'd been clutching his wrist but now her hand slid to his hair, her teeth clenching against every instinct to scream his name, head rolling to the side as her back arched again… Her hair, but… oh, how could she care! Matthew's lips and fingers stroked tentatively, his confidence, pleasure and arousal slowly spiralling as she writhed against his touch, as his fingers hesitantly sought her, dipped in, further, deeper, his tongue stroking relentlessly over her wet heat, quicker and hotter with less and less thought until her grip on his hair tightened without warning and her entire body stiffened and shuddered against him, her choked cry ringing in his ears.

Startled by her reaction and sudden limpness he kissed her once more, before raising himself back up her body till he could look down into her eyes but they… _shone_, and her cheeks flushed with colour, and the base of her throat, and he lowered his lips to kiss her burning skin.

"God, Mary, I – are you –"

"Oh, darling it's alright, it's – perfectly alright, it's… perfect…" she laughed as tears stained her cheeks, wrapping her arms around his neck and tucking her face against his shoulder as she realised he had… no idea, truly no idea, of what he had just given to her. And truly neither did she; only the utter satisfaction that fulfilled every fibre of her being told her that this was _right_, and how this _should_ be, and her body quivered with passion for him.

Gently, she pressed her hands to his chest until he shifted to his knees, and she sat up beside him. They kissed, deeply, indulgently, arms curling around each other as they shifted closer together, Mary gasping into his mouth at the taste that lingered on his tongue. His fingers skimmed over her back, soothing the burn from the rug that she couldn't think to care about how she would hide as her hands slid down the smattering of hair across his chest, down over his warm abdomen until she found his belt. He hissed against her lips as she shed it, raised himself awkwardly as she tugged everything else he wore down and off, before he settled back to lean against the side of his desk.

He stared, entranced, as Mary stared at him… He saw her pulse flutter at her throat, her eyes wide and blinking, her fingers reaching out to him… His head fell back as she touched him, a low, throaty groan erupting helplessly as her fingers wrapped around him, her palm stroking, up, down, tighter… Absorbed in her task, fascinated, transfixed, Mary stared at her own hand curled around him, in a caress such as she'd never dreamed, never _desired_ to perform as she did so now. But it was instinctive, inevitable, much as it was when she shifted and her head lowered, taking him into her mouth and whimpering softly as he jerked up past her lips. Never before, and never again; she knew it even as her tongue stroked up, and down, her lips closing and tightening and sucking, and his hand curled to the back of her neck… _This_ was only for him, and only for her, and nothing, nobody would take this pleasure, this afternoon, from them for the rest of her life.

Eventually, as his shudders grew stronger and his gasps quicker and louder, she slipped her lips from him and kissed his belly, tongue dipping into his navel before she kissed up, up to his chest, his neck, his cheek, lips… He pulled her desperately to him, clutching her as he sought to answer her intimacy with his tongue against hers, but for both of them now it was not enough.

Matthew ached with arousal, though he felt powerless and overwhelmed by every sensation and emotion she invoked in him. It was far, far too much for him to process; he only knew that nothing in his life would ever compare to it, and for the rest of his life he would bear that pain and _deserve_ to. His fingers gripped helplessly at her hips, gritting his teeth as she knelt above him, watching as she grasped him and guided him into her, as she sank down, legs curling awkwardly around his hips as they settled together in blissful unison. Matthew groaned quietly as hot sensation flooded his body, surpassing the sharp ache where the side of his desk pressed into his back, there was nothing but her… Above him, around him, _together_…

There was nothing, nothing at all, beyond their two bodies joined as one, hot skin burning against hot skin, dampened by sweat and heat and fire. They rocked, kissed, clung together, breaths quickening and pulses racing as unthinking pleasure overtook them, overtook the pain and regret that this was _it_. Slowly, they shifted, Matthew to his knees, lowering her tenderly beneath him with his arms curled under her shoulders to protect her as much as he was able. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat to his wet, desperate kisses as he thrust into her, again, and again, punctuated by each moan of delight that wrenched past her lips. He lay over her, thrusting harder, quicker, one hand slipping from beneath her to curl under her knee, his nails digging into her thigh as he clung to her.

That sensation, his desperation, weakness and power, marking her skin, shattered Mary again as his thrusts stoked fire deep within her, fire that burned hotter and hotter, spreading from her belly to her fingertips until she splintered in his arms with a raw cry that she bit into his shoulder as she curled up against him. Forcing her eyes open, her head fell back again as she watched him follow her over the precipice seconds later, his entire body seeming to snap and convulse above her in a way that she recognised but… never before had it seemed so breathlessly perfect, something she welcomed and relished and _enjoyed_, as when she saw that lust, no, adoration burn brightly in Matthew's glittering eyes. And as his heavy weight covered her when he fell, trembling, into her arms, she welcomed him and embraced him, as she never had and never would another… because she adored him, the way he made her feel, the way he responded to her and her body… She _loved_ him, everything of him, even when he had hurt her so very deeply and injured her with his words and his actions she loved him, and never more than at this moment as they lay spent in each others' arms.

He groaned weakly into her shoulder, his lips nestled against her neck.

"Oh, God…"

"It's alright," she whispered, stroking his dampened hair with shaking fingers. But her words died and she squeezed her eyes shut, biting back a sob that he couldn't see, as she realised it was _not_ alright. It was not alright at all, for their ecstasy heralded the end of it, the end of _this_, the end of _them_.

"How can it be alright," he murmured, raising himself to his elbows to look down at her, forehead resting gently against hers. He closed his eyes and breathed in their scent of her love, of _them_, and it shuddered out of him a moment later. "Mary…"

It was as if he had read her thoughts, and her weak voice trembled as she blinked up at him with wet, glistening eyes.

"It has to be," was all she could manage. "It will be hard, Matthew, but… we will have this, we'll always have the memory of –"

"I don't want you to go back to him," Matthew whispered fiercely, fingers twisting uselessly into the rug.

"You know I – God, of all people you know I must!"

"You can't, Mary, not now –"

"I _can_ now," she tried to soothe him, futile though it was, as tears stung her eyes. She stroked his cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down it, forcing him to look at her no matter how painful that was. "I can bear it now because of this, don't you see?"

"But –"

She shook her head fiercely. "No. You know it's impossible for me to divorce him. He'd never – let me, Matthew, would never give me cause."

"Damn him," he muttered under his breath, rolling from Mary onto his back and pulling her against his side, his arms warm around her. Except it was not really Carlisle that he was angry at. It could not be, for what had he done besides marry the woman he wanted to, and treat her with generosity and – to all intents – kindness? No, damn _himself_, for if he was bitter now it was only because he had let her go to him, he'd practically shoved her into Carlisle's waiting arms and God, he hated himself now for it. If, _if_, if only he'd not been so damned blind and stubborn and foolish… He had ruined them.

Of course there was no way. The only way out was if Carlisle were ever to… hurt her, and it could be proved, but… Mary was certain without measure that violence was something he would not rise to.

Matthew turned his head to look at her very seriously, glad of it in his heart for he could not bear the thought of her in any pain, refusing to comprehend the very pain of her existence as his wife without any love. He swallowed, speaking tentatively. "What if… he found out about – this."

"He won't," Mary shook her head again, flexing her hand where it lay on his waist. "Even… if he were to discover it – do you think he'd give me the slightest leeway to leave him? He's… clever, Matthew. He knows the law as well as anyone, and he knows that it would give me cause. And that would give… _us_, everything we wanted. Somehow I can't see that, can you?"

"No," Matthew sighed, tracing his finger over her wet cheek, leaning to kiss away her tears. "I'm… so, so, sorry Mary. You cannot imagine how sorry I am, for so many –"

"Hush," she placed a finger to his soft, full lips. "There's no point in that now." Slowly, a gentle smile spread over her features, and Matthew frowned until she spoke again.

Something very striking had just occurred to her – not particularly surprising, considering their circumstance, entwined together and naked on the floor of his study. "After – Kemal," she whispered, "I believed that I – finally understood what it was to be happy. And I was sad because I knew I never would be again."

"Oh, Mary…"

"No, you see – I was wrong. I was so very wrong, because – I am happy – now."

Her smile trembled into a sob as he kissed her, and she kissed him back, and she realised the overwhelming truth of her silly, girlish belief all those years ago. _Now_, she was happy, in Matthew's arms… And _now_, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she never would be, never _could_ be, again.

The shadows in the room were beginning to deepen, as finally, and slowly, they dressed. The marks and reminders of their love were covered, lost, hidden away… not to be forgotten, though, not ever. Mary squinted into the window, using it as an imperfect mirror in the growing darkness to pat her hair back into shape, praying that her maid would not question any disarray before she was able to loosen it for a bath. Matthew watched her, his heart aching with grief as every piece of clothing they reclaimed took them further from each other, further towards their proper roles, their proper futures… without each other.

"What do we do now?" he asked softly, helplessly, as his belt buckle snapped closed under his fingers and Mary pinned her hat back onto her head.

She smiled bravely. "We remember, darling."

He nodded, taking her hands. "Alright. I only – God, I wish –"

"You mustn't. There's nothing. Let's just – be thankful for this, Matthew… As I always will be."

"Always," he whispered fiercely, gripping her hands tightly.

He felt wretched. Utterly, utterly wretched, as he opened the door and slipped downstairs, checking to see the path was clear before he beckoned her down to follow him.

Quietly, as quietly as they could, they went to the outer door. Matthew turned the lock, but let his hand rest there for a moment, turning to her one last time. He couldn't… couldn't let her go; it was impossible, simply unbearable…

"God, Mary, I can't – I can't let you go."

She pressed her lips fleetingly, sweetly to his, and took a deep breath against her tears.

"And that is exactly why you must, Matthew."

"I know, I – know." God, it was hard. He felt weak, destroyed, as if a part of him were leaving forever with her and it was _his fault_, all of it his fault… He gasped back a shuddering breath, almost a sob.

It had to be goodbye. They both knew it, and the overbearing realisation and finality of it hung between them, a knell that would destroy everything they had shared, everything they might have shared, beyond their memories. There was no way out, and it was wretched, and if only…

But it was too late for that. They were cursed. They… deserved every ounce of unhappiness they must bear, Matthew believed, or – he very certainly did – for all the wrong he had done to her, to everyone around him. And it hurt. And it _should_.

Mary squeezed his hand, smiling with a rueful fondness as she recalled his words from so many months ago, so clearly, indelibly burned into her memory.

"Let's be strong, Matthew," she whispered. "And let's accept – that this is the end."

His lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, his voice shaking even as it had then.

"Of course it's the end," he replied bitterly. "How could it not be?"

He clutched her hand, for as long as he could, until she breathed 'goodbye,' and eased his hand from the doorknob to open it. They stared each other for one long, devastating moment… seeing everything that was beautiful and painful and wonderful and hurtful in the other. Their whole relationship, their shared memories, played out over their faces in that gaze until finally, with difficulty and a terribly, terribly anguished heart, Mary pulled her hand till her fingers slid from his grasp and she closed the door behind her. Not even then could her tears fall, for she had to get back into the village, back to Haxby, back to her husband, before she could be allowed that…

Matthew sagged weakly against the closed door, the cool wood pressing against his burning forehead. It was the end. She was gone, back to her husband, who would go to her bed and… and… He felt sick, and pressed a fist to his mouth as he swallowed back the hot bile that rose suddenly in his throat.

_Mary_.

His body thrummed with tension, with the memory of her, as it ached in sorrow for the loss of her. But he welcomed that ache, embraced his own anguish because it was _right_, and he deserved every ounce of it. God, he was a mess.

Turning slowly, he traced his hand along the wall as he made his way back down the corridor. Only now did he see the flicker of firelight from the sitting room doorway, and when he passed it, he saw his mother sitting calmly in the armchair with her embroidery. He had no idea when she had returned, how long she had been sitting there.

"You should – put the light on," he suggested, finding he had to force the words from his dry throat.

"Would you?" she asked. And in her tone, and her glazed, hardened eyes, Matthew saw entirely that she knew, had heard, had understood. Her lips parted to speak as he flicked the light switch to flood the room with harsh brightness.

"Matthew –"

"Don't – for God's sake, please – do not lecture me. Not now."

He bit the admonition out and turned his back on her cold, knowing gaze, fleeing upstairs before her thoroughly earned reproach could follow him. And he locked himself in his bedroom, as he hadn't done since he was a small boy, to mourn his loss and his folly. To remember all the pain and ecstasy that had coursed through him for… _Mary_. A woman he felt now that he had never deserved, and whose life he had cast into darkness with his own stupidity and selfishness. And he hated himself for it. They could never be happy; he would never deserve to be.

Of course it was the end. How could it not be?

**Fin**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Firstly, thank you so much for reading!_

_Secondly, now we are at the end, I suppose I'd like to say that... I'm well aware that this may not be the ending that some of you had wanted. __I'm also very aware that though it is the end of this fanfiction, there are many, many paths that M/M could take from here. What if Mary was pregnant? What if Carlisle found out? What if Matthew stayed in Downton and this progressed to a full-blown affair? However - it was only ever my intention to bring them to this point. I know it's not happy, but I hope that you'll appreciate it, and see it as in keeping with their characters and motivations had things progressed in this way._

_Anyway, despite all that I hope you found something to enjoy in it - and, either way, I'm very curious to know what you thought, so if you feel so inclined do please let me know!_

_And thank you again for sticking with me through this - I very much appreciate it :)_


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